


It's All Coming Back To Me Now

by hawthorn_and_holly (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Songfic, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 08:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14870303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/hawthorn_and_holly
Summary: Harry knew he'd forgotten something. Something important. It was like a vague itch, too faint to scratch but distracting nevertheless. In itself, that wasn’t so unusual, but…the best he could describe it was that it was a weird kind of odd. Different to the usual Harry Potter-related weirdness.He found the only person that might be able to help, but was Hermione's help making things easier or harder?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to LadyTuesday, who read and gave excellent critique and read again and gave more excellent critique - and is probably throwing her hands up right now because I'm publishing without another round of excellent beta work.  
> I'm too impatient, and any mistakes must be mine because she catches everything that comes her way.
> 
> Originally inspired by repeated listenings to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TppJMa8apkc) rendition of IACBTMN.

Harry sighed. He had no idea why he was so melancholy lately. At the back of his mind was an odd impression that he was forgetting something, something important. It was like a vague itch, too faint to scratch but distracting nevertheless. People were acting a bit strange towards him, too. In itself, that wasn’t so unusual, but…the best he could describe it was that it was a weird kind of odd. Different to the usual Harry Potter-related weirdness. He’d tried to ignore it but with his N.E.W.T.s coming up, he couldn’t afford anything that took away from his concentration. With all other options exhausted – as in, none – he found the only person he knew could help.

“Look, Hermione,” he found himself saying, ten minutes later. “You are the only person I know who can help me with this!” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, trying to keep his voice down. They were in a secluded corner of the common room, and it was largely deserted, but still. “People are being weird. Weirder than normal,” he added, knowing what she would say. “I just…there’s something I’ve forgotten, something important, and it’s driving me crazy…there!” he pointed at her triumphantly.

“What?” she asked, startled by his sudden movement.

“That look!” he said. “That’s the look that means you know exactly what I’m talking about. Please, Hermione!”

She looked torn, and he knew then that his hunch was correct – she knew what was going on. “This will be easier with the Pensieve,” she told him abruptly. “Come on.”

Sneaking up to McGonagall’s office wasn’t necessary now – Eighth Year students had no curfew, and McGonagall had made her office open to Harry. It had been a useful refuge at times, but he wasn’t sure it extended to use of her magical items. The desperate need to know what was happening to him overrode any doubt, though, and Harry found himself whispering _‘Onoprodum acanthium’_ to the gargoyle that guarded her staircase. Inside, Harry nodded at the former headmasters and headmistresses stirring in their portraits while Hermione extracted her memories.

“Harry,” she said, wand holding the silvery strings over the Pensieve, “before we go in there, I want you to remember you asked me to show you this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, but she’d dropped the memories and the liquid was swirling. Before he could speak again she’d grabbed his hand and they were toppling headfirst into her memories.

+++

Harry blinked. He’d landed on the Quidditch pitch. It was night time and, from the look of it, winter. Snow was falling, and there were two figures standing next to each other. No, facing each other, facing off against each other in the middle of the pitch as though they were about to fight.

“Hang on, that’s me!” Harry told Hermione. He glanced around and saw the tension on her face. They were standing next to Memory Hermione, who was crouched in the shadow of the grandstand, wand at the ready.

“What the hell are you doing?” Harry asked Hermione. He pointed to himself in the middle of the pitch. “And what am I doing?” He tried to walk closer but couldn’t – he was bound by Hermione’s memory. Irritated, Harry squinted at the figures. One was definitely him, and the other…

“Is that Draco Malfoy?” he asked in astonishment, a frisson of energy shooting down his spine. As he watched, the two of them argued. Malfoy shoved him, and he shoved back. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t seem to be too amicable. Abruptly, Draco turned to walk away, and to Harry’s amazement, he grabbed at Draco’s arm. Draco shook him off, and it looked as though Harry was asking him something. Begging, Harry would have said, had it been anyone but Malfoy. Mesmerised, he watched himself take Malfoy’s hand and tug him away towards the Gryffindor team change rooms. Malfoy seemed reluctant, but he followed the grip on his arm.

When they disappeared, the crouching Hermione didn’t move, though her wand drooped. “Oh, Harry,” she sighed, and conjured herself a three legged stool on which to sit.

“You haven’t answered a single one of my questions!” Harry hissed at Hermione.

“I told you, you need to see it, Harry! Watch it all then I’ll answer your questions.” She directed him back to the memory, which was swirling and coalescing again. It looked the same – Quidditch pitch at night. No, the shadows had moved – the moon was at a different angle, but they were still standing in the same place, beside Hermione on her stool. As Harry was about to ask yet again, Hermione shot him an exasperated look and pointed at the far side of the pitch. Malfoy was stumbling out of the change rooms, tugging on his robes.

“No!” his voice was loud enough to carry this time; he was shouting, and loudly. “No more, Harry!”

As Harry watched, his memory-self stumbled out too, also fixing his robes. “Draco! Draco, wait, please…” strangely, his sobs were also audible.

“I had an Extendible Ear out by this point,” Hermione explained. “So we can hear you.”

Across the pitch, Harry was grabbing again at Malfoy’s robes, urging him to stay, to listen.

“NO!” Malfoy tried to roar, but his voice broke. He stopped trying to pull away and turned on Harry. From the other side of the pitch, it looked like he was crying, but that couldn’t be right…

“No _more_ , Harry. No more late nights where nobody can find us. I want to be with you. Not just like this, where nobody can see your shameful little secret,” he spat out the last phrase, “Harry Potter’s fucking a wannabe Death Eater.”

Harry’s ears filled with white noise, and it was a few seconds before he realised it was the memory and not the shock generating the noise. He focussed again, but everything looked frozen. “What’s happening?” he asked Hermione.

“I paused the memory,” she said. “Thought you might need some time to come to grips with that bit.”

“Right, well I’m fine,” Harry lied, “so can we get on with it please?”

The noise ceased and the memory started up again. Harry watched himself try to convince Malfoy to stay before the sobbing blond finally turned and fled. Harry suddenly looked very small and alone, and as they watched, he fell to his knees and covered his face. His sobs were so loud Harry thought the Extendible Ear wasn’t even necessary. As they watched, Hermione stood, Vanished her stool and started striding across the pitch to the still-sobbing Harry.

Harry and Hermione followed, watching Hermione help a distraught Harry to his feet and hold him as he cried into her robes. “He doesn’t understand, he won’t listen…”

“I know, Harry,” Hermione said, and the way she spoke made it clear that she had already known about Harry and Draco, and probably disapproved, Harry thought. When the sobbing subsided, Hermione ignored her tear-stained shoulder and conjured a handkerchief so Harry could blow his nose.

“You followed me down here,” Harry said, wiping at his face.

“Of course I did. There are only two reasons you sneak out at night, and Buckbeak’s still protecting his baby from everyone,” she said. The look on her face was painfully close to pity. “Harry, you can’t keep doing this.”

“I know,” Harry said in a whisper. “Draco…doesn’t want me anymore.” His face collapsed in as he whispered, “He doesn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m not sure that’s exactly what he said,” Hermione protested carefully.

“He wants us to parade around, showing ourselves off. Like I need another reason for people to point and stare when they see me!” Harry flared. “He doesn’t believe you can love someone unless you shout it to the whole world!”

“I don’t think that’s quite true,” tried Hermione again. They stood in silence for a long while, Hermione’s face miserable while Harry’s was blank with grief.

“Hermione, do you still have that Memory Charm?” he asked suddenly, raising his tear-stained face. “Remember you did that extra work for Flitwick on targeted Memory Charms?”

When Hermione nodded hesitantly, Harry’s face set, still pale but now determined. “I want you to do it on me.” He drew in a shaky breath. “About Draco. Malfoy, I mean. All the stuff with him.” He stopped, then pinned her with a pleading look. “Please Hermione. He doesn’t want to be with me, and I can’t not be with him. Not if I know…” he trailed off, closing his eyes to breathe deeply.

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked doubtfully. “The new one’s pretty experimental, I mean they developed it to use against Death Eaters, to make them forget Voldemort…”

“But you did the old one it on your parents,” Harry protested, then froze as Hermione let out a tiny, agonised squeak. “Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry...”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered. “I don’t know how to reverse it. What if it goes wrong? Can you live with that?”

“Yes,” Harry said firmly. He squared his shoulders. “Do it now.”

“Now?” Hermione yelped. “Harry, I should check the incantation, and the new recommended wand action is very tricky…”

“Please, Hermione,” Harry begged.

With a look of serious reservation on her face, Hermione slowly took out her wand. Harry, standing back from the memory pair, felt Hermione slip her hand into his. He looked over at her to see tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” she whispered, and Harry had the peculiar idea she was talking to both versions of him.

Before them there was a loud bang and Harry staggered, a grunt coming from his throat as he dropped his sodden tissue.

“Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice tense, wand still pointing at him.

“Hermione.” Harry replied automatically. He looked around. “What are we doing out here?”

“Um,” she said, “we followed Malfoy out. Wondered if he was up to something.” She waited, not breathing as far as Harry could tell.

Harry raised his eyebrows, and for a moment he didn’t speak. “Did we?” he said finally. “Up to his old tricks, is he?”

“What tricks?” Hermione asked carefully, still watching Harry.

“Oh come on, the usual ‘My father’s going to hear about this, I don’t have to follow the rules’ kind of stuff.” Harry looked at her with an odd expression. “Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, of course,” Hermione said, her voice falsely high. “Let’s go back to the dorm, shall we?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, and they set off towards the castle. He touched his cheek, frowning, then shrugged it off.

Harry stared after the pair for a moment, until Hermione tugged on his arm, and they were flying backwards out of the Pensieve.

+++

When they landed, Harry allowed his knees to crumple as they’d been threatening to do since Malfoy had shouted at the memory of him and walked off.

Hermione slid down to sit beside him, tears still running down her face. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” she said.

“Thank you for showing me that,” Harry said. He wrapped one arm around her. “I can’t believe I asked you to do that. I didn’t even ask if you’d be okay with it. Merlin, I should be the one that’s sorry.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Do…do you have any questions?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said slowly. “I mean…can you just tell me what happened? I mean from the start. I don’t know, when that was, or when it all started, how you found out…”

“Okay,” Hermione said. He could see her order her thoughts before she began. “It started….it was about…October, I guess. McGonagall was all into cross-house friendship, and she’d paired up the Eighth-Years with each other to sit at each other’s tables, be seen around the castle together, that kind of thing.” Harry made a face at this. “Yeah, it wasn’t great. But most people just got on with it, and it wasn’t terrible. It was kind of working, really.”

“Hang on, I don’t remember that at all,” Harry said. “I mean, I remember the idea of it, but I don’t remember being part of it.”

“You were paired with Malfoy.” Hermione told him. “I have no idea why. You seemed to hate each other. You certainly complained about him enough, though in retrospect it was a bit of a love-hate thing. By New Year’s, you were spending a lot of time ‘on your own’, and in the only reasonable conversation I had with my less-than-delightful partner, Pansy Parkinson, we realised you and Malfoy were spending time ‘on your own’ at the same time, all the time.”

“Parkinson knew?” Harry said.

“She’s friends with Malfoy, so she agreed not to say anything.” Hermione explained. “I confronted you, and you admitted you and Malfoy had been seeing each other for a while.” She sighed. “I’d been convinced you were pining after someone – Ginny, maybe. But when you talked about him, you were happy, really happy, you should have seen your face... Nobody knew except Pansy and I, and we tried to make sure nobody else realised you were both disappearing at the same time.”

“Right.” Harry said, his head whirling with this information. He just couldn’t resolve the idea of himself and Draco. “Hermione, did I mention anything about how we got together? I mean, we kind of hated each other for a long time…”

She sighed. “Apparently you were fighting about something after one of the Hogsmeade trips. He’d said something about your family, and you’d said something about his. You got pretty loud and Neville had a go at both of you, reminding you that everyone’s families were changed by what happened.” She shrugged. “You said it made you look at him differently. Draco, I mean. The way his father was, what it must have been like growing up like that. And the things he’d lost in the War.”

“What, so I just started being nice to Malfoy?” Harry asked in disbelief.

“Not right away,” Hermione said. “I don’t know what happened after that, specifically. You just said you and he had understood each other better, and then…” she shrugged. “You were together.”

“Right.” Harry said. “And then that happened.” There must have been some pretty heavy conversations, he mused. A lot must have happened for him to be that emotional about Malfoy. And yet, he’d seen it with his own eyes…

He waved one hand at the Penseive, indicating the memory he’d just experienced. “When was that, anyway?”

 “Ninth of February,” Hermione told him. “You and Malfoy had been arguing about Valentine’s Day since the start of the month. He wanted to do something special but you refused to do anything that might put your relationship out in the open.” She sighed again. “I think it had been an ongoing problem, to be honest.”

“So that’s it, then.” Harry said flatly.

“Yes,” Hermione said in a small voice.

“I think I need some space,” Harry told her. Hermione nodded, and they descended the stairs together. When Hermione turned for Gryffindor Tower, Harry gave her a brief smile then continued on his way, wandering aimlessly through the castle. The irritating itch he’d been desperate to scratch was gone – but it had been replaced by something far bigger and more painful.


	2. Chapter 2

“Harry!”

Harry groaned, but responded to the summons. “Hi, Luna.”

“Lovely evening for a stroll, isn’t it?” Luna said conversationally.

Harry grunted. He felt rude, but he wasn’t sure he could manage a Luna conversation right now.

“Are you alright, Harry? Only you’ve been quite strange since you and Draco broke up.” Luna spoke in such an offhand manner that Harry’s jaw dropped open.

“You knew about that?” he asked in astonishment.

“It was fairly obvious, Harry,” Luna told him. “I could see you watching each other. It changed one day. He looked so sad, but you didn’t notice.” She tilted her head. “You weren’t happy either.”

“Really,” Harry replied, his mind racing. “Er, Luna, can I ask you about…me and Draco?”

“Of course, Harry,” Luna said, as though it was the most normal think in the world. “What did you want to know?”

“I don’t know,” Harry asked. “What do you know, about…us?”

“I heard you talking,” she said. “It was right after All Hallow’s Eve. I was sitting on the window ledge behind the bust of Pramila the Pernicious on the fourth floor landing and you and Draco were standing by the big stained glass window watching Ravenclaw’s Quidditch practice. You asked him about his parents. You were very nice, much nicer than you used to be.” Luna’s observations were still painfully accurate, Harry thought to himself.

“He wanted to know why you cared about his family. You said something about Neville…He’s quite clever now isn’t he? Especially in Herbology.”

“Yes,” Harry said impatiently. “What about Draco, though?”

“Oh, he answered your question, then he asked you about your family, and there was a whole nice bit where you talked about your awful childhoods.” She smiled to herself. “You have quite a lot in common, you know.”

“Really?” Harry asked.

“Yes, he was surprised too. He said so, right before he asked if you were seeing anyone.”

“He what?” Harry asked.

“Harry, you really don’t remember this?” Luna looked mildly admonishing. “Draco wanted to know if you had a girlfriend, or boyfriend or anything.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered.

“That wasn’t when you started going out, not for a few weeks,” Luna continued. “I liked listening to you both. It was like having friends again. You met there a lot, you know. To watch the Quidditch practices.”

“Did we?” Harry asked her.

“Oh yes,” she replied. “Almost every day. You talked about all sorts. It took a while but these things do, don’t they? Eventually you trusted each other and that’s the most important thing.”

Harry had no idea how Luna had become so wise, but it genuinely felt like she was saying exactly the things he was needing to hear. Plus her eavesdropping was really quite useful in this instance.

They’d walked all the way to Ravenclaw Tower by now, and Luna said goodnight as she answered the riddle posed by the Eagle doorknocker.

“I don’t know what else happened. Harry, you really should try and remember your own life. Write it down before a Blibbering Humdinger extracts your memories to feed their young.”

Harry walked on, considering everything Hermione and Luna had told him. From the sounds of it, he and Draco had finally found some common ground. Having something to talk about had obviously given them somewhere to start – and from what Luna said, Draco had made the first move sometime around All Hallow’s Eve. Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

He didn’t remember the conversations with Draco but already his mind was searching for parallels between his own experiences and Draco’s, and they weren’t difficult to find, now that he was looking. It wasn’t hard to imagine a scenario in which a private conversation tipped over into something more – a hand on an arm in consolation, a shared smile, eyes meeting and holding a beat too long. It sounded…nice. More than nice, Harry had to admit – he wanted to remember what happened, even if that included the difficult parts.

Frustrated, Harry looked up and realised he was in the Entrance Hall. He needed to speak to someone about this. So much of his life had been struggling to get someone else out of his head, but the knowledge that there was a part of himself locked away was too much. He needed more powerful magic, and someone that wouldn’t ask questions. It was a difficult combination – Hermione was by far the most talented in their year, which left only staff in the ‘more powerful’ category. As for someone that wouldn’t ask questions, well that was more difficult.

As he thought about it, Harry realised he might not need to explain. A gifted witch or wizard would be able to sense the magic around him, and if he simply said someone had cast it as a joke, surely they’d lift it for him?

“Honestly, Potter, you make the simplest things complex,” came a voice from the picture behind Harry. The voice was familiar but not entirely welcome.

“Professor,” Harry said with the minimum of civility. He would never like Phineus Nigellus Black, though they had come to a grudging agreement while Harry was on the run last year. Turning, Harry saw Black in a heavy gold frame, sneering at him.

“Ah,” said Black. “Difficult, isn’t it, to change one’s mind about something once you’ve chosen a course?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“I was in the Headmaster’s office,” Black replied coolly, “until my repose was interrupted by the drivel that you and Granger call conversation. The solution is clear.” He gave Harry one of the smug little smiles he hated so much. “Provided you understand all of the people involved, of course.”

“Was there something you wanted to say, Mr. Black?” Harry said. He wished Black would just say what he wanted to say instead of wrapping everything up in riddles.

“If you recall, Dumbledore was a great proponent of love as a cure-all,” Black said. “Might I suggest you consider that a starting point?” Without stopping to say goodbye, Black stalked out of the side of the image, leaving only the murky background behind.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry shouted at him, frustrated. He couldn’t go to bed now. He needed to talk to someone. Someone who could help him understand ‘all the people involved’.

Harry slipped out the Entrance Door and headed for Hagrid’s on restless legs. As he walked, he considered Black’s words.

Harry started thinking about himself first. Why would he want to keep a relationship with Draco secret? A host of reasons presented themselves – the press would go crazy, of course; Lucius and Narcissa would hardly be welcoming, the Weasleys might not understand after he and Ginny had split up (and the loss of Fred, of course), the difficulty of both Gryffindor and Slytherin students accepting their relationship. While they were all valid, Harry knew there had to be something deeper.

Much as he loathed self-examination, Harry tried to see what might truly drive his fear of a relationship becoming public.

_You’re not worthy of Draco._

_You’re nobody now – not The Boy Who Lived, or The Boy Who Won._

_What have you ever done on your own, that wasn’t prompted by some kind of Dark Magic?_

_Boring. Average. Undeserving._

The words were vile, full of a vicious self-doubt Harry didn’t even know he carried around with him. Had he really felt that way about being The Boy Who Whatever? Cautiously, he probed at the bubble of vitriol, only for it to burst, revealing the deep truth behind even that falsehood.

_The only reason you were interesting at all was all the Voldemort stuff._

_When Draco figures that out he’ll drop you and you’ll be a laughing stock._

_Again._

That was it. His eyes opened slowly, stomach roiling with the new realization. He was afraid that if they went public, Draco would realise how boring he really was. He wasn’t The Boy Who Lived anymore. Nothing exciting happened in his life. Nothing important or noteworthy, and Draco would soon tire of Just Harry, the average N.E.W.T. student, aspiring Auror and fair Quidditch player.

And what about Draco? Harry was only beginning to see what Draco was like as a person. All the knowledge he’d gained had been erased with the rest of his memories. From what he’d seen in Hermione’s memory, Draco had been inconsolable as they’d argued that night. Obviously, the issues Harry had foreseen had not been a problem for Draco – or he’d been prepared to deal with them. It had sounded like an old argument – so it must have been important to Draco. Really important. A pang of guilt hit Harry. He wondered how much he had considered Draco’s point of view. Had he been too selfish to listen to what Draco wanted? Too wary of dealing with the whispers and taunts when things inevitably imploded? Perhaps Draco hadn’t even been given the chance to explain his point of view.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. There was no way to know how he had acted then. He had to figure out where he was now, what he wanted and how to go about it.

Musing on that idea, Harry knocked at Hagrid’s door.

“Harry!” the giant man greeted him in surprise.

“Hagrid,” Harry replied. “Not too late for a cup of tea, is it?”

“O’ course not!” Hagrid replied, pushing Fang back to allow Harry to enter. Hagrid bustled around, and they made small talk until a huge mug of tea and a plate of rock cakes was placed before Harry. Hagrid looked at him expectantly, and Harry took a deep breath.

“Hagrid, I want you to tell me about Hermione.”

“What?” Hagrid said. “What are you talking about?”

“Tell me about Hermione,” Harry urged him. “Pretend I have no idea about who she is.”

Hagrid blinked, then said, “She’s a right smart one, our Hermione, as you well know. Worked with the Ministry last year, gettin’ those Mem’ry Charms righ’ for the Death Eaters who didn’t go to Azkaban.”

“Right,” Harry said. “What else?”

“Well, she cares abou’ people,” Hagrid said. “You and Ron, o’ course, but she’s always comin’ down to see how I am, and she helped with Buckbeak and the house elves and wha’not…” Hagrid leaned in, his black eyes sparkling. “I think she thinks she’s your big sister,” he said. “Always thinks she knows what’s bes’ for you, don’t she!”

Harry stared at Hagrid, his mind working fast. A thread of possibility wove together in his mind, taking in all he had just been told about Hermione.

What if Hermione had _not_ cast an irreversible Memory Charm? She could very well have modified the Charm on the spot, casting a strong Charm with a loophole, instead. If Harry had never asked, it would have remained in place and nothing would have changed. Knowing Hermione though, the possibility that Harry would notice and ask for the spell to be removed would be enough for her to want an out, just in case. Merlin, she might have even woven that in – some minor irritation that would drive Harry to distraction until he finally mentioned it to her. He wouldn’t put it past her.

Harry hadn’t moved, his eyes barely blinking as his mind played with the idea, considering it from as many angles as he could. When he’d exhausted all his ideas, only one thing remained.

He had to speak to Hermione.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the daylight. It was late, he saw; why was that alarming? When the previous evening came back to him, Harry froze for a second before leaping out of bed. He dressed and brushed his teeth in record time before racing downstairs. Thank goodness it was Saturday, and he didn’t have to sit through interminable classes before finding Hermione. It had been bad enough finishing his conversation with Hagrid and having to wait until Hermione came down from her dormitory – he was grateful sleep had claimed him at last. He headed down to the common room, which was buzzing with low-level weekend excitement. Hermione accosted him as soon as he emerged.

“Harry!” she said, hugging him.

“Um, hi?” replied Harry, uncertain how to approach this. What if he was wrong, and there was no loophole?

 “Are you okay?” Hermione asked anxiously. Harry noticed Ron wasn’t around – he had no idea if she’d told Ron what had happened, come to think of it – but he still dragged her over to a private corner.

“Of course,” he said. “I thought – I’ve been thinking.” He didn’t tell her about the conversation with Snape the night before. “I was wondering, I mean, with that Charm-”

Hermione cut in, looked agonised. “Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry! I wish I’d never done it, but you looked so miserable, and you were so sure you wanted me to...”

“It’s alright,” Harry comforted her. Hoping to lighten the mood, he added, “The things we do for love, right?”

As Hermione looked at him with an odd, slightly guilty expression, Harry blinked at her.

Oh Merlin, he thought. He was right. She’d done something to the spell.

“If you recall, Dumbledore was a great proponent of love as a cure-all,” Phineus Nigellus had said, sneering out of the picture fame the night before. “Might I suggest you consider that a starting point?”

Harry’s head whirled with what he knew of Old Magic, the protection his mother had cast on him when she’d sacrificed her life, the same protection with which he’d imbued the defenders of Hogwarts by allowing Voldemort to kill him.

Love was strong.

Love could protect.

Love could overthrow other magic.

“Hermione,” Harry asked, watching her face carefully, “The Memory Charm you cast. Was it…a standard spell?”

She shook her head, eyes wide in fright.

“Can you undo it?”

She shook her head again, eyes glued to Harry as though willing him on.

“Hermione,” whispered Harry, as though a louder voice might negate the whole conversation, “Is there something that can undo the spell? A key?”

A nod this time.

Merlin, it could be anything. “We’d been talking about love, hadn’t we?” said Harry, and a squeak came from Hermione, as her eyes went even wider and her hands came up to her mouth. She was nodding, tiny but fervent, as though encouraging Harry.

Harry took a deep breath. “Do I have to do…something?” He swallowed. “Something with Draco?”

The look on her face said everything, and without thinking, Harry hugged her tight. “Thanks,” he whispered. “You know me better than I do.”

With a deep breath, Harry scrambled out the portrait hole then down a corridor…then stopped. How would he know where to find Draco? It was Saturday morning, it was possible that he was at breakfast, but this hardly seemed like the right conversation to have in the Great Hall in front of all their friends. Perhaps a little more thought and a little less haste might help things go more smoothly. As he turned to head back into the common room, the Fat Lady swung open, allowing Hermione out. She handed Harry a folded piece of parchment without saying anything, then turned back inside. Harry frowned and turned it over.

It was the Marauders’ Map. She really did know him better than he knew himself. Deciding to be grateful instead of slightly weirded out, Harry slipped into a classroom to try and find Draco. With George’s help earlier this year, he’d figured out the ‘Point Me’ spell could be used to find a specific person on the map. Now, he lay his wand on his palm over the map and whispered, ‘Point Me to Draco’. He watched while the tip shifted, then hovered over a section of sparsely populated parchment. Harry palmed his wand then peered at the map. Perfect. From the look of it, Draco was sitting near the edge of the lake, not another soul within five inches of parchment.

Harry hastily stowed the map and headed for the lake, a small part of his brain concentrating on where he was going while most of it wondered what the heck he was going to say.

+++

“Um, Draco?” It sounded odd coming from his throat, even though Harry had been thinking of him as Draco for a while, so it seemed. When the blond scrambled up from the rock he’d been sitting on, Harry swallowed. He’d never really paid much attention to what Draco looked like – he was just another person, really – but today, he really looked.

   Harry frowned. In his memories, Draco was rarely anything but supremely arrogant. Shoulders back, head tilted, smug look on his face. Now, though, he looked nervous. Miserable, if Harry had to choose a word. His shoulders were hunched protectively, and although his face had always been pale, there was an edge of sallowness to it now.

“What do you want, Harry?”

Harry had expected the tone to be aggressive, but there was more sadness there than he’d anticipated.

“Um,” Harry started. “I just wondered…how you’re doing.”

Slim shoulders rose and fell. “Okay.” There was a pause. “You?”

Harry did the same, then berated himself. _This could be your chance,_ he thought to himself. “Actually,” he said, encouraged by the flicker of hope in the grey eyes before him. “I’m um,” he stopped, and took a deep breath. “I don’t remember anything about…us.”

“What?” Draco asked.

“Memory Charm. I asked Hermione to cast it after we…the Quidditch pitch.” Harry said, desperate to get all the information out before Draco left.

“Then how…” Draco asked, his brow creasing.

“Something felt wrong,” Harry admitted. “I felt like something was missing. Hermione showed me her memory of that night, so I’ve seen some of it, and she’s told me the basic story.”

“But you don’t remember.” Draco said. His face was closed, thinking; Harry wondered what was going through his mind. “Why are you here, then?”

“I just wanted-”

“Yeah, it’s always about what you want,” Draco interrupted him, the bitterness taking Harry by surprise.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry said. When Draco gave a derisive snort, said more forcefully, “Draco, I have no idea what you mean.” At the disbelieving look, Harry spread his arms. “Tell me. Please.”

When Draco didn’t move or speak, Harry dropped his arms and sighed, feeling his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what for, but from what I could see in Hermione’s memory, we had something good and I messed it up.”

“So that’s why you came, then?” Draco asked. “Curiosity?”

“No,” Harry said quietly. He could feel Draco’s anger, see it in every line of his angry posture, and he was surprised at the sadness it stirred in him. “I came because whatever we had, it was strong enough not to be hidden by a Memory Charm. A Memory Charm cast by a bloody powerful witch. And once I’d realised what it was hiding, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He stopped, not sure if he should continue.

“Go on,” Draco said, and Harry realised he wanted to be convinced.

“I want to understand,” Harry said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Understand enough to apologise, even if we don’t end up finding a solution.”

“Because that worked so well last time,” Draco said.

“No, because it _didn’t_ work well last time,” Harry said patiently. “I get the feeling I was pretty selfish.” The snort of derision this time told him he was on the right track. “I doubt I listened to you. I was probably pretty wrapped up in myself. But when I saw you on the Quidditch pitch - the second time, I mean - I saw how much I’d hurt you, and I thought how awful to leave you without at least trying to fix it. I was hurt too, from what I could see, and the only thing I could think was…” He paused, not having intended to say it, but Draco was captivated by his words, and Harry found himself finishing the sentence, eyes locked on the grey before him.

“Only people you love have the power to hurt you so much.”

Draco must have been holding his breath too, because Harry couldn’t hear anyone breathing, and he felt the burn in his own lungs. When black spots threatened the edges of his vision, he let out a burst of air, breathing deeply again.

“You loved me?” Draco asked carefully.

“I think I must have,” Harry said.

Draco stared at him for a long moment.

“The first conversation we ever had without antagonism,” Draco said carefully, his voice low and controlled, “I thought you were kidding.”

“You did?” Harry asked.

“You asked about my family. I thought you were setting me up. I answered you anyway, and you told me about your cupboard and your…family. The ones you grew up with.” Draco’s voice was stilted, his sentences stiff. “I couldn’t believe it when we actually had a conversation. We had more in common than I thought.”

He looked down, and Harry swallowed.

“We never talked about anything, before the War,” Draco said. “We fought the first time we met and we never stopped. I didn’t expect to…like you.”

“Surprised me when I heard about it too,” Harry whispered. It felt like a fragile atmosphere and the last thing he wanted to do was puncture it.

“I really liked you, Harry. We talked. Do you remember…of course you don’t. But we talked about everything. I told you things…and I think you told me…but there was always something there. Something you didn’t, or couldn’t...maybe you didn’t trust me?” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Always a Death Eater, maybe.”

Harry did not speak, though frustration rose in his throat. Without his memories of what they had said to each other – what they had _meant_ to each other – he daren’t contradict Draco. Surely, though, he wouldn’t have been so intolerant?

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, when the silence became oppressive. “I don’t know what I said…but…” he broke off.

To his astonishment, Draco’s eye filled with pain, his face crumpling. “I loved you.” The words were agonised, as though it took all his strength to say them. “I _love_ you.” A ragged breath was lost in the sound of Draco shifting on the pebbles below, but Harry could see the effort behind the words. “I would have defied my parents for you! Told the world how much we meant to each other, risked all the ridicule again to show them-” He cut himself off, running one hand over his head in frustration. “But you wouldn’t.” His lip twisted in a bitter smile. “I was enough for late nights in the Room of Hidden Things, or the Quidditch pitch, but not for the rest of your life.”

When Harry didn’t reply, Draco moved closer, his face contorted with rage and grief. “I LOVED YOU!” he roared, gripping the front of Harry’s jumper. Instinctively, Harry grabbed at his hands.

As their skin met, his head exploded with pain, and he felt the shout rip from his throat, knees buckling under the centrifugal pressure on his skull. Sinking somewhat more slowly than he should, as Draco helped him down to the grass, Harry squeezed his eyes closed again the sensory onslaught.

“Harry?” he heard his name and flinched, fearing he and Draco would touch again and the pain would intensify.

“Don’t…touch!” Harry gasped, focussed on his head.

“Pomfrey?” Draco asked, his voice tense.

Harry shook his head, gasping at the pain. “No.” he could feel Draco still hovering, his anger evidently having evaporated. Concern rolled off him in waves, distracting Harry from figuring out the jumble of images flashing in his mind. “Just leave me,” Harry managed, and mercifully, Draco did, though reluctantly.

Now, he could concentrate, sort out the mess that had just landed in his brain. A tangle of emotions, flashes of scenes, smells, sounds, words. Harry rolled onto his back, took a deep breath and tried to sort them out.

A lot were linked, but after a while, Harry managed to make a rough chronology. It wasn’t easy; though some memories felt older, they were all so close that it was difficult to tell. Others weren’t linked to anything, and he couldn’t tell what they meant at all.

Going back, he examined them from the start.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 _Resentment. Disbelief, the same emotions registering on Malfoy’s face during the Eighth-Year meeting (he was definitely Malfoy here – another clue it was earlier, before their relationship had grown)._  

_The discomfort of people pointing and whispering about him and the clear thought, “I had no choice, I’m not a hero.”_

_Floating pumpkins, the smell of chocolate and spices. A surprised laugh at his poor joke._

_Grey sky, matching eyes, the crunch of snow. Butterbeer._

_Slurred words, hushed admissions at the top of a Hogwarts tower. The feeling of a beginning, fizzing like sherbet._

_Awkwardness, anticipation, relief (none of these linked to each other, but they made sense here in his constructed narrative)._

_An image of words scrawled on a scrap of parchment. 10pm, RoHT. Xx_

_The sensation of holding a happy secret; the bubble of joy that surrounds everything._

_Expensive Christmas paper surrounding a joke toy. Warm affectionate laughter. Christmas bells._

_A full moon lighting the way, warm fingers intertwined with his as twin puffs of condensation marked their way across the lawn to the Quidditch pitch._

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Harry swallowed hard and pushed on.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

_A warm body, fingers and mouths, sweat and softly wrung curses. The bliss of orgasm. The taste of salt._

_Arguments, softened at first with smiles and attempts at understanding._

_Heated words, cruel accusations. Tears felt and seen._

_The agony of not being able to find the words._

_A great roar of “No, he’s gone, no, no more…” remembered in Harry’s head, and then..._

_Nothing._

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Staring up at the sky, Harry knew he was seeing clips of his brief relationship with Draco. Now that he’d unpacked and somewhat sorted them, the memories were not as overwhelming, though some lingered more than others. The most tenacious was the sense of loss, radiating through him whenever he recalled that last memory. It was made worse because of the intimate moments – Harry was pretty sure they were the first time he and Draco had spent the night together.

He’d felt so close to Draco, it had been overpowering. The love and affection had bound them so tightly for that brief period. Harry desperately wished he could remember all of it - he’d never experienced love like that before. It was pure and deep, running through his veins, refreshing his body with every heartbeat. He was amazed to see how much he had wanted to be close to Draco, and his heart ached at the last secret he’d kept hidden, the ultimate downfall to their relationship.

It can’t have been the touch that triggered it. Hermione was far too clever to leave it to a chance touch in the middle of Herbology or something. Instinctively, Harry knew it was Draco’s declaration. _I LOVED YOU,_ he’d roared at Harry, and there was no mistaking the pain and grief in his voice. Pain and grief Harry had put there, with his selfishness and fear.

He had to find Hermione. Desperate, Harry resorted to something he did only rarely – he sent his Patronus out to her. Even with the map, it would take him ages to find her, and then they’d have to find somewhere to talk. When Prongs found her (he still thought of his Patronus with his dad’s nickname), Hermione would know it was urgent and that she should follow. In the meantime, Harry tried to sort through the conversation he’d had.

Draco had seemed cautiously receptive when he’d arrived, and had even believed the Memory Charm story the first time. Harry had worried he would have to convince Draco somehow. In the end, he’d been convincing Draco that he wanted to make amends, and the bloody memories had given him exactly zero on how to do that. Not even a snippet of argument to guide him. Well, he’d have to make do with what he already knew.

Draco had wanted to go public. Had actually considered his father’s reaction, from the sound of it. Harry had adamantly _not_ wanted to go public. That was the core of their argument. Without all his memories, Harry had no idea if he’d ever actually shared his true fears with Draco. It was becoming more likely though that he’d been withholding from Draco, fending him off with the same arguments he’d tried fooling himself with over the years. From what Harry could see, his reluctance to be open with Draco had destroyed them. Draco had been head over heels, and shattered when things were over, even though he was the one who ended it. What if his reasons for going public were as strong as Harry’s for remaining hidden, but Harry hadn’t listened enough for Draco to share it? He wondered how much of Draco he’d been considering when he implored Hermione to cast that Charm. Probably not enough, he told himself harshly.

 “Harry?” Hermione came puffing up, apparently having sprinted after Prongs the whole way here.

“Thanks for coming,” Harry said.

“Well?” she said, still catching her breath.

“I remember some stuff,” Harry told her. He rubbed his eyes, head still sore from the rapid return of his memories.

Hermione looked horrified. “Harry, he didn’t hit you!”

“No, nothing like that,” Harry said, ignoring that it had in fact been quite like that. He hesitated.

Hermione spoke into the silence. “He loves you.” It was a statement, and Harry nodded. “And you love him, Harry.” Hermione sounded equally sure of this.

Harry nodded again, a slight frown crossing his face. “How did you know?”

Hermione sighed. “That’s the key, Harry. You love each other, but it’s not pure yet – there’s something holding it back. That’s why you only have some of the memories.”

Harry stared at her then looked away, shaking his head. Bloody hell, she was clever.

Hermione’s voice, previously, empathetic, changed to a more businesslike tone. “So there’s one question.” She waited until he was looking at her. “Do you want him back?”

“Yes,” Harry whispered, a tiny echo of the huge resounding affirmative screaming through his every vein.

“Then you’d better tell me every single thing you both said so we can sort this out,” she said, settling down on the grass beside him. Taking a deep breath, Harry started from the start. As embarrassing as it was to be so open about how he felt, his admiration – and a little bit of fear – made him tell Hermione almost the whole truth. That secret was for Draco, Harry had decided – if they ever got to the point of a serious, private conversation. If Draco ever trusted him that much again, Harry would have to demonstrate his own trust, too. Hermione was nodding through his monologue, interrupting only a couple of times until he finally finished up.

“So basically,” she said, chewing absently on a blade of grass, “he doesn’t believe you love him as much as he loves you because you don’t want to go public.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “Although I don’t remember why I didn’t want to.” A little white lie there, but Hermione didn’t notice. She was too busy looking at him as though she wanted to smack him, and Harry half cowered – there was always a chance she would do that. “Are you saying you _would_ go public, then?” she asked, exasperation in her voice.

Harry hadn’t really considered the question in quite such blunt terms. He imagined the furor when it came out that the Boy Who Saved The Fucking World or whatever he was being called, was dating the Son of The Right Hand Man, or whatever ridiculousness they would think up for Draco. He imagined telling his family (practically speaking, he had none; the Dursleys would be more worried about Draco being a wizard than anything else), the Weasleys (they’d take a while to warm up to it, but he trusted them to accept Draco), their schoolmates (worst case scenario, they’d be out of here in a few months and it wasn’t like he hadn’t been the centre of attention before).

With a deep breath, Harry imagined the worst headlines he could think of, the Howlers that poked at his deepest fear, the sniggers and taunts that hit home. None of them evoked the same reaction in him as the idea of not having Draco. Basically, Harry couldn’t think of a single good reason not to tell the world he loved Draco. There were a lot of reasons, reasons he’d hidden behind – but love was strong, he reminded himself. So that was the crux of the problem then – was his love for Draco enough to take on the whole world?

“Yes,” he said aloud, answering both the question in his head and that Hermione had proposed.  

“Wow,” she breathed, a slow smile coming over her face. “Okay then, there’s only one answer, Harry James Potter.”

“No,” Harry said, raising one hand. “Don’t use my full name, Hermione, that’s never good.”

“Harry,” she said seriously, “you need to get his attention.” She looked around, then frowned. “Where is he, anyway?”

Harry’s heart sank. “Well, I mean the memories were pretty full on, and I was worried I’d get more if he touched me again, so…”

“You sent him away, didn’t you?” Hermione yelped, hitting him on the arm.

“Yes!” Harry shouted back, hoping she wouldn’t hit him again.

“Well, in that case, you need something bigger.” She stared at him, arms crossed, which allowed him to relax a bit about the hitting.

“Bigger?” he repeated. This didn’t sound good.

“Yes,” Hermione said firmly.


	4. Chapter 4

As the evening meal drew closer, Harry was feeling less and less like he’d be able to keep anything down. His stomach was twisted in knots as he waited for the appointed time, pacing up and down the boys’ dormitory floor. Hermione had banished him there, declaring he was being entirely too suspicious and even the unobservant lower year students would notice something was weird. She’d explained everything to Ron, who was still shaking his head and looking startled every now and then, as though he briefly forgot about it and then suddenly remembered. Hermione was trading exasperated looks between the two of them – Ron for his amazement, Harry for his nerves.

“It will be fine,” Hermione said firmly. “There’s plenty of room for you to ad lib, if you want, and the worst that can happen…”

“Don’t say it,” Harry told her, his restless feet never stopping.

“It’s time,” Ron said tersely. He looked as nervous as Harry all of a sudden. Standing between Harry and the door, Ron said awkwardly, “Um, look, good luck, mate, alright? I mean, it’s weird and all-OW!” he rubbed his arm where Hermione had punched him without looking, “but if it makes you happy, I hope it all works, you know?”

“Thanks Ron,” Harry said. It certainly helped to know there would be two people who wouldn’t laugh if his worst nightmare came true and he made a massive arse of himself in ten minutes.

+++

Once seated in the Great Hall, Harry had to covertly search for Draco. The tables, while still strictly belonging to each house, were slowly mixing up more at mealtimes under McGonagall’s encouragement. It was good in general, Harry supposed, though right now it made it far more difficult to find Draco.

“Over there,” Ron said suddenly, “far end of Ravenclaw.”

Harry tried to be casual, turning his head to where Ron had indicated. Good, Draco was sitting at the end of the long table, as was his habit now. It would make it far easier to approach him (and get away after if necessary, his traitorous brain supplied). Harry recognised several Slytherins and a couple of lower year Ravenclaw faces seated around him, though it looked like Draco was only really talking to Pansy.

“Did you get Pansy in on this?” he asked Hermione, not taking his eyes off Draco.

“Of course,” she said absently. “I had to make sure he actually came to dinner, didn’t I?”

Harry nodded, chewing on his bottom lip as he watched Draco give a half-hearted smile in response to whatever Pansy was saying. His stomach was even worse than before. Merlin, this was worse than…he wondered where it ranked and decided he was more nervous than any time he could remember, which was ridiculous. The likelihood of the fate of the whole wizarding world resting on this one action was miniscule compared to other notable events in his life.

“Go on,” Hermione encouraged him. “before the puddings come out or he might go.”

It was the thought of missing his chance that made Harry stand up. _Realistically,_ he coached himself as he walked slowly up the long length of the tables, _only a handful of people will see and hear what’s going on_. Unless it goes very, very badly. _Or very, very well,_ he tried, but the thought was already there. Before he knew it, Harry was standing at the end of the row between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Taking a deep breath, he walked over to stand by Draco.

“Hi,” Harry said, and it wasn’t his voice but Pansy’s elbow in Draco’s ribs that made him look up. The pale upturned face whirled through emotions before settling on something neutral.

“Potter,” Draco greeted him, and the formality cut deeper than Harry thought it would. Harry let the emotion show on his face, determined to be open, despite Pansy’s blatant interest in the conversation.

“What happened to Harry?” Harry kept his voice as light as he could.

“Harry,” Draco said, sarcastic emphasis on his name, “made it quite clear he didn’t want me around today.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry replied. He waited to be sure Draco had heard before going on, “When I touched your hand…well, when I heard what you said, I think…I remembered some of…before.” Draco’s eyebrow rose lazily, but Harry could see more interest glimmering in his eyes. It gave him the push to go on, “Snapshots really, bits of sound and smell and images.” He swallowed. “And emotion. A lot of emotion.”

Draco nodded, his mouth a thin line. Harry had no idea what that meant, but as long as Draco was listening, he was going to do it. Keeping his eyes locked on Draco, Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it at his own throat. “Sonorus,” he whispered, and Draco’s eyes widened. Pansy looked beside herself, and Harry was painfully aware of the whispers all around, as the word spread around – something was happening.

“Draco,” he said, not needing to shout, but hearing his voice echo around the hall. “I remember.” The noise level rose, then fell away to almost complete silence, and Harry fought to ignore the scrutiny. He focussed on Draco’s eyes, watching the realisation of what he was doing dawn on him. There was still no sign from him as to his reaction; he was frozen, so Harry pressed on. _In for a knut, in for a galleon_.

“I remember Christmas,” Harry said, watching Draco’s face shift in memory. “And New Year’s Eve. I remember the Pygmy Puff, and the fizzing Whizzbees, and the niffler in the greenhouse,” his face coloured as a buzz of recognition swept the room – they would certainly get in trouble for that prank. He pulled all his attention back to Draco, whose face was also flushed at Harry’s words.

Harry’s voice softened as he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I was afraid and too selfish to see that you were too, a bit,” he hoped Draco didn’t mind him surmising that for the whole school to hear, “but I’ve realised something.” Harry paused, and he could have heard a Doxy egg drop. He allowed himself to smile, to show the joy he’d remembered, the contentment and affection he felt again.

“I love you more than I’m afraid.” Harry had known his hand would tremble, but he held it out anyway. Draco’s eyes shifted to the movement automatically, and widened even further before snapping back up to Harry’s for confirmation. Harry nodded a tiny bit, hope blossoming as Draco swallowed hard. For an agonising second, he thought Draco might turn him down; refusing to take his hand now was tantamount to flat out rejection. This was the moment, and it stretched out longer and longer…

With a start, Harry felt strong fingers slide against his own and he braced for the onslaught of memories, fighting to hold Draco’s gaze as he did so, needing to be grounded by the warm, grey eyes. There was nothing to fight against this time. He felt warmth bloom in his chest, sliding through his veins like thick Pepper-Up Potion, and when he searched, the memories were there, filling in the gaps as though they had never been missing. With a gasp, he tightened his fingers; he remembered their arguments, the agony of Draco’s pleas, his own blindness in the face of his fear. Harry was dismayed at himself, at the way he’d dismissed Draco. How could he expect…defeated, he turned to walk away.

“No,” Draco said, standing and reaching for Harry’s other hand.

Harry paused. He still held his wand; it pointed again at his throat as he muttered “Finite.” Excited chatter broke out once again, sweeping through the hall. Harry dropped his wand on the table, clutching Draco’s hand again.

“Don’t forget the bad stuff,” Draco whispered, his eyes firmly on Harry’s, the smile that Harry loved playing over his lips, “but remember the good.” As he spoke he gripped Harry’s hands and pressed his mouth to Harry’s, the cheers of the crowd melting into the pounding beat of Harry’s heart as Draco kissed him.

There was warmth and tentative pressure, familiar and new and very, very surreal. This was a moment Harry would be happy to draw out forever; although he remembered kissing Draco, it still felt a little like the first time. Slipping his hands free, Harry settled them instead on Draco’s jaw, ignoring the overwhelming noise and revelling in the sense of right that had shucked away the slightly off feeling he’d experienced since the spell had been cast.

“I’ll take that as, ‘I love you too,’”, Harry murmured.

Draco grinned against his lips. “Okay,” he replied. They held each other’s gaze for a moment longer, before Draco added, still smiling, “What do we do about that lot?”

“Follow my lead,” Harry told him. In one motion he dropped one hand to take Draco’s while the other picked up his wand then rose in a wave to the crowd. The applause thundered through the hall, and Harry mentally counted to three, then turned and tugged Draco out of the Great Hall and the castle. He was prepared to run, but nobody followed them, thankfully. When they’d walked a little around the castle, Harry found a secluded spot he remembered from their previous time together. They leaned against the cold stone, heads close, hands entwined.

“You need to know,” Harry said seriously. “The thing, the main thing wasn’t any of the arguments I made. I can deal with the press, and the Weasleys and even your Dad,” Draco smirked at that, and Harry took a deep breath. “It was me. So much of my life has been about being the Boy Who Whatever, and I didn’t want it, any of it.” He turned Draco’s hand over in his own, watching their fingers as he spoke. “And when we…started, part of me wondered why you’d chosen me. I mean, out of everyone in the whole school, in the world, you chose me.”

“Clearly not for your fame-seeking,” Draco said, his voice warm with affection.

“Exactly,” Harry said, hoping Draco hadn’t missed the point, which he was admittedly yet to make. “Why would you chose me, when I’d done the thing I was meant to do? I mean, I’m nobody now, which is great, trust me, but…”

“But what would someone see in that?” Draco asked quietly, filling in the words Harry couldn’t bring himself to say.

“Yes,” Harry whispered. “What if you realised it when the whole world kept prattling on about the War and stuff, and there wasn’t anything newer or more interes-”

He was cut off by Draco kissing him, lips soft and undemanding.

“You are interesting, scar or not, Defeater of the Dark Lord or whatever or not,” Draco told him. “When we finally talked, you showed me how considerate and thoughtful and funny and kind you are. That’s the person I wanted to be with. That I still want to be with.”

“Plus, you need to shut up so I can tell you my deepest fear, too.”

“Okay,” Harry said, his heart beating irrationally fast.

“What if,” Draco started, his voice quiet but eyes determinedly on Harry’s, “my Dad disowns me – which is very likely, by the way, and fine with me – and you discover I’m not rich, or powerful, or even all that clever-”

It was Harry’s turn to shut up the fearful ramblings with his mouth, pressing his tongue into Draco’s lips with more insistence than Draco had shown him. The resulting sigh was accompanied by arms around his neck, and Harry sank into the kiss, relishing the new-familiar sensation.

“Your dad’s a prat,” Harry told him, “and you are amazing for getting through all of that in one piece, and coming back here and facing everyone. And now, you won’t have to do it on your own.” He felt a pang of guilt as he realised how alone Draco must have felt since the beginning of the year.

“So basically,” Draco said, as he kissed a slow line along Harry’s jaw, “we’re a pair of insecure, poor, average young wizards without a N.E.W.T. to our names.”

“Well,” Harry said, consideringly, taking quite a long time to remember what he was going to say after Draco started sucking on his earlobe in a decidedly suggestive manner, “No N.E.W.T.s yet. We’ll be famous enough not to be average, if that rea-oh…really matters. Even if your Dad cuts you off, my parents left me some money and I have a house, so we’re hardly poor.” He groaned, grabbing at Draco as a warm tongue traced patterns down his neck. “What was the other thing?”

“No idea,” Draco replied indifferently. Reluctantly he pulled away, panting and grinning and looking at Harry with a happy smile. “My point is, we’re very much the same, Harry Potter.”

“My official title is The Boy Who Lived,” Harry said in as pompous a tone as he could manage.

“Don’t backchat me,” Draco warned, his grin spreading even wider, “or my father will hear about this.”

“I’m certain he will,” Harry said, dipping his head for another kiss. And that was the last either had to say for a satisfyingly long time.


End file.
